


Stiles Stilinski's Guide to Awkward; or, How the Human Pack Found Their Alpha in a Strip Joint and the Events That Followed

by scalamander



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Underage Drinking, stripper!derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalamander/pseuds/scalamander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia's got excellent drunken plans for Allison Argent’s Amazingly Epic Eighteenth Extravaganza, except no one is really prepared for who they find at the strip club. On stage. Naked. </p><p>Stiles definitely did not see this coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stiles Stilinski's Guide to Awkward; or, How the Human Pack Found Their Alpha in a Strip Joint and the Events That Followed

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and open for editing if y'all find mistakes.
> 
> Written for Hayley's prompt on tumblr, which was, to paraphrase, "Strippers!!!"

The thing is, Stiles is a really good best friend - always has been. He knows Scott better than Scott knows himself, which isn’t really saying a lot because Scott doesn’t know much about anything anyway.

  


So because he’s a really good best friend, Stiles knows that Scott’s really bummed about Allison’s birthday. More specifically, Allison’s epic birthday _party_ \- because it really is going to be epic - but alas, poor Scott will still be underage and, therefore, too young to go.

 

Luckily, Stiles does not have this problem. In fact, Stiles and Allison take not-so-secret pride and joy in being a salacious few months older than dearly beloved baby Scott. Out of their troublesome trio, Stiles is the oldest (October 29), followed closely by Allison (November 17), and concluded with Scott, trailing behind all the way in spring (April 23). 

 

Lydia has been planning something devious - or, Stiles suspects, something at least partially illegal, for the last two and a half weeks, and he’s getting a little nervous. She hasn’t said anything to anybody; just keeps looking at them all with a wicked eye and answering covert calls on her cellphone at lunch.

 

Two days before Allison Argent’s Amazingly Epic Eighteenth Extravaganza, Lydia informs them that they’ll need their ID’s close in hand.

 

“No worries,” Allison says to assuage Lydia’s pointed, and somehow simultaneously nagging, gaze. “I’m going to get it in the morning. I’ve got an appointment and everything.”

 

“You better have,” Lydia says, glare never wavering. Stiles has always wondered how she manages look so intimidating for so long without blinking.

 

Beside him, Scott mopes and pushes a few smashed tater-tots around his plate with a plastic fork. “I still don’t see why you can’t pick something all of us can do,” he mumbles into his tray.

 

Lydia puts her hands on her hips and launches into her _Allison-is-turning-18-this-is-a-serious-event-in-her-life-Scott-it’s-no-one’s-fault-but-your-own-you-were-conceived-so-much-later-than-everyone-else_ speech for the ninth time this week.

 

So the thing is, Stiles is a really good best friend. He listens to Scott’s relationship problems (mostly about Allison’s parents and not so much about the actual relationship _with_ Allison), how wonderful Allison is, how perfect Allison is, how smart Allison is, what a jerk Derek is, how much being a werewolf is really messing with his life goals, so what if he didn’t really have any before the point is he _could have_ and now he _can’t._

_  
_

__

And the thing is, Stiles really likes Allison. He does. She is smart and funny and yeah, she is really pretty. But Stiles isn’t in love with her and Jesus Fucking H Christ he can only take so much.

 

The thing is, Stiles needs a break. Stiles needs to hang out with humans and remember how humans have human fun with each human other. Stiles needs to get human drunk with humans who can _get_ drunk and not with werewolves who _can’t_ \- or at least, can’t without four bottles of Jack and a whole crate of beers.

 

Thing is, if Scott used his brain (god love him, sweet thing, he’s a nice guy but about as useful as a bag of hair) - and he could if he tried, Stiles believes it - Scott would realize that he’s friends with a guy who was almost arrested at 13 for having seriously major hacking skills. And said friend would probably be able to somehow get and/or create Scott a fake ID, uneven jawline included.

 

But Scott doesn’t think to ask Danny, because since he met Allison thinking has been pretty low on the to-do list, and Stiles just doesn’t feel like giving the cash or the effort to get his dear sweet seventeen-year-old best friend the goods to join the proverbial club. Or the literal club, depending on what Lydia’s plans are.

 

After Lydia’s rant is over, Stiles says, “Sorry buddy,” and gives Scott a manly pat on the back. “I’ll send you pictures. You’ll be with us in spirit.”

 

Scott sighs into his tater-tots.

 

\- - -

 

Lydia turns up on Thursday night in a stretch limo and a tiny dress. Stiles appreciates both. He also appreciates the sheer quantity of expensive champagne and the veritable liquor store _(_ _are there seriously four kinds of rum in that cabinet? is the limo actually the TARDIS?_ _)_ contained inside. Lydia has excellent connections.

 

“IT’S MY BIRTDHAY” Allison slurs as he scrambles into the limo. Allison throws her arms around Stiles and drags him the rest of the way in, his face squished against her flushed décolleté.

 

He pats her awkwardly on the bicep. “It sure is! Ah-”

 

She lets him go in favor of a mostly empty bottle of Cristal. Back in charge of his limbs, Stiles squishes in between her and Lydia, who’s pouring champagne into flutes and looking completely unimpressed all the while. There are two other girls from school on the bench across from them - a very short and curvy red-head called Natalie and a plain but pretty brunette, the name of whom Stiles can’t remember quite at the moment - both talking, very drunkenly, over -

 

“Oh! Hey Danny!”

 

Danny looks _suuuper_ uncomfortable. He makes a little half-wave. “Uh, hi. Stiles,” and tries to push Natalie’s bosom out of his face.

 

Stiles turns to Lydia, who’s paying no attention to the others and doesn’t look like she’s touched a drop. She’s making kissy faces at her handheld mirror, but that’s standard practice.

 

“How did they get so drunk? You’ve been in the car fifteen minutes.”

 

Lydia gives one more kiss to the mirror then flips her hair and gives Stilesa a look that says he's clearly an imbecile. “We had a girl’s party _before_ we got you and Danny.” Stiles can practically taste the _duuuh._

 

“Oh, right, yeah, obviously. So where are we going?”

 

The as-yet-nameless brunette chooses that exact moment to launch herself over Stiles in an effort to get to Allison, cackling like a witch all the while, and Stiles doesn’t get an answer other than Lydia’s mischievously raised and finely manicured eyebrow.

 

\- - -

 

It turns out the plan isn’t so much to go anywhere as it is to drive around in the limo and get spectacularly hammered. Stiles suspects the girls reaped the benefits of Lydia’s two-week-long covert scheming when he and Danny weren’t the only two sausages in the all-breast-and-thigh buffet. But that doesn’t matter so much now that he’s had a whole bottle of champagne andsome fairly disugsting but definitely effective mixed drinks from Allison. Stiles proudly suspects he’s getting wise to her drunken ways. Maybe she could teach Scott.

 

Then again, who cares about Scott when -

 

“THERE’S MORE CHAMPAGNE, BITCHES!!”

 

“Lallison,” Stiles says seriously, snapping his fingers over red-headed Natalie’s red head to get her attention. “AY LALLISON, I jus - lall’son -”

 

“Stiles Skalintinasky,” Lallison cries desperately as she climbs over the intertwined bodies on her end of the limo. Eventually she manages to slide over Danny’s back and crouch on the seat beside him. “Smiles - _SMILES_ OH MY GOD YOU HAVE THE BEST SMILES, STANKILSITY.” Allison pets his face. It feels really nice, she’s got soft skin and she smells really good, like alcohol and leather and perfume.

 

“Al’son, I jus’ wan’ tell you that - an’ I really mean this, I do,” Stiles takes Allison’s face in his hands and looks into her really pretty brown eyes, like, _really pretty_ , “you have really pretty eyes and I _totally get why Scott loveshu_.”

 

Wait that wasn’t what he was gonna say.

 

It doesn’t matter, Allison’s tearing up and she has that expression on her face like she’s just seen a really adorable kitten video on YouTube. “ _Sty-ulllsss_ you are the best - no, Scott doesn’t even know - you are _the best friend_ and like, werewolves,” she waves her hand dismissively, “like, Stiles, no, we are best friends okay.”

 

Allison takes both of Stiles’ hands in hers and even though they’re a little clammy, they feel really reassuring.

 

“ _You._ And _me. We_ are _best friends._ TWO MAN HUMAN-PACK!”

 

Another bottle of something magically appears in her hand and _she is so right!_

 

“TWO MAN HUMAN-PACK!!” Stiles shouts in solidarity, and they drink from the same bottle with arms around each other’s shoulders while the rest of the car starts singing Fat Bottom Girls in drunken harmony.

 

\- - -

 

“TO THE STRIP CLUB!” Lydia shouts as they pile out of the limo.

 

“TO THE - wait what,” Stiles nearly drops brunette-whatshername and looks up at the canopied one-story black building. “LYDIA. ARE THERE BOOBS IN THERE? LYDIA. ARE THERE BOOBS -”

 

But Lydia’s already up the steps and talking to the bouncer, and clearly does not share Stiles' urgency regarding the Possible Boobage Situation. The rest of the group fumble for their ID’s, most of which are fake (actual props to Danny, turns out he _does_ have mad skill) and step over each other inside and to an awesomely round table near the stage.

 

It’s not a big strip joint, not like the movies promised Stiles they would be, but it’s okay because maybe this means more close and up-front action. _Awww yiissss._ His downstairs gets real happy when, not a minute later, the colored lights spotlight the pole on stage and some shitty song starts and _hello oh my god they’re not real but they’re beautiful_

__

 

“DANNY THAT IS A NAKED GIRL. THAT IS A NAKED GIRL, DANNY.” Stiles informs Danny over the thump of the music. Danny makes a Yeah That’s Really Great, Thanks But No Thanks face and trips over to the bar.

 

Of course, Lydia and Danny have fake ID’s with their ages over 21, so technically they’re the only ones getting drinks. It doesn’t stop Stiles and Allison and the two-other-whoevers (they’re not pack, who cares) stealing sips (gulps. entire drinks. whatever.) and the employees don’t pay them any attention.

 

Their table is big and round and littered with drinks, and close enough to the stage that Stiles doesn’t need to reach that far to throw bills at the beautiful, naked, gyrating woman all lit up and sparkly and naked and did he mention _really close?_

 

Big Stiles and Little Stiles both flag with disappointment when Portia (beautiful, naked Portia) sways off-stage, but they appreciate the back view while at the same time commending her ability to walk in three-foot high platform shoes.

 

Stiles turns, sad but hopeful, to Allison in the seat next to him. She and Lydia are giggling at her phone’s screen.

 

“LALLISON,” Stiles shouts even though there’s a break in the music. Allison jumps and stares at him in shock so he lowers his voice and says in a conspiratorial whisper, “ _Two Man Human-Pack!_ ”

 

_“Two Man Human-Pack!”_ Allison whispers back.

 

They brofist.

 

“ _Allison,"_ Stiles hisses, _"Do you think there’ll be more boobs.”_

_  
_

__

Allison frowns. _“I dunno, why are we whispering.”_

_  
_

__

Stiles straightens up. They look at each other consideringly, and share another brofist. For solidarity.

 

“Alright ladies and gentlemen - HEY DANNY, GET OVER HERE,” Lydia shouts, and Danny grabs his drink from the _actually really cute_ bartender and hustles his ass back to the seat next to Stiles.

 

Lydia looks like she’s about to continue, but the lights dim again and this time a voice comes on over the P.A.

 

“Welcome, welcome!” says the salaciously-voiced woman, “It’s ten o’clock, and that means-”

 

“ _LADIES’ NIIIIIIGHT!!!”_

_  
_

__

_Holy shit_ Stiles jumps a fucking foot out of his chair and almost knocks over Danny’s fancy umbrella’d daiquiri. Somehow, since their arrival, the entire club has filled up - _with women_. Stiles curses Portia and her beautiful naked breasts. So perky. So distracting.

 

“That’s right, ladies!” The voice cheers, “And we wanna throw out a special welcome to Bachelorette Anna over at table twelve - we’ve got something just for you!”

 

The Argent party swivels around to a table just diagonally behind theirs ( _probably with a better view,_ Stiles thinks hatefully), where a group of women with crowns of varying sizes - and Bachelorette Anna, who not only has a sash but a full pink veil to match - shriek drunkenly at the stage.

 

Stiles and Allison look at each other, terrified.

 

“Okay ladies, and you fellas out there, that’s right,” (Danny and Stiles hunch lower into their chairs and pray there are more guys hidden in the dark booths behind them), “get ready for _Stan the Fireman!!”_

 

Table twelve loses their shit as the lights dim and new music starts. Allison grabs desperately for any alcohol, finds only an empty glass, and screeches to Lydia, “I NEED MORE OF THIS.” 

 

“Stan the Fireman? Really?”

 

“Danny,” Stiles says disapprovingly, “if you’re judging stripper’s names, you are clearly not drunk enough.” He pushes Danny’s drink, which is in his hand but still shamefully full, closer to his mouth. “DRINK IT.”

 

Danny opens his beautiful sassy mouth to make some remark around his straw, but table twelve screams and starts a fucking riot as a shadow falls over the stage. They look up at Stan the Fireman, and four things happen simultaneously:

 

  1. The two non-packers start screeching as loud as Bachelorette Anna and throw what money they have onto the stage. It’s mostly quarters, but that doesn’t seem to bother the half-naked fireman.
  2. Lydia returns to the table with Allison’s drink, but Allison doesn’t notice because she can’t look away from the stage. Stiles, who also can’t look away, snags it instead.
  3. Danny glances up, double-takes, then promptly spits his daiquiri all over the side of the stage and the knees of his pants. And also, probably, his shoes.
  4. Stiles gets a boner.



 

A raging, totally inappropriate, not at all inconspicuous boner.

 

For Stan the Fireman.

 

Who tears off his jacket to reveal his totally unrealistically ripped torso, which also happens to be oiled up and glittering _with fucking glitter._

_  
_

__

And now Stan is moments away from ripping off his pants - Stiles just _knows_ they’re the rip-off kind, he can feel it - and is glittery and shiny and oh yeah,

 

IS ALSO DEREK HALE. 

 

SURPRISE.

 

Stiles’ mouth drops open and all the blood rushes to his dick.

 

None of them can look away while Derek just fuckin’ goes for it, hips thrusting up as he dances like a drunk sorority girl at Martis Gras, totally in time with the rhythm of the shitty music. He comes around to the front of the stage and Stiles has pins and needles in all extremities because _literally all the blood is in his cock -_

 

Stiles was right, they’re rip-off pants.

 

Off they go, torn away in one quick sexy dancing motion, thrown carelessly to one side of the stage and yep there it is, it’s right there, and _you know what that is, Stilinski?_

__

 

That’s Derek Hale’s junk.

 

Right there.

 

Right up in there.

 

All up on that stage.

 

Okay, so it’s not like, flopping out or anything. No, it’s tightly packaged ( _PACKAGED)_ in a tiny black thong and oh dear god -

 

Stiles is looking directly at Derek Hale’s giant erection.

 

Yeah, _okay_ , it’s still in the thong but -

 

“SHAKE THAT MONEY MAKER!!” a tiara’d woman yells from, predictably, table twelve. Allison’s Awesome Epic Eighteenth party swivel to stare at her, then back to Derek, who hasn’t missed a beat and is just _really, really going for it._

_  
_

__

Stiles has literally never seen anything like it before. Jesus Christ - and Derek, well, he’s seen Derek de-clothed a few times. Not fully naked or anything, but when you’re pack you see things that sometimes you’re not always sure you want to see. Like your best friend eating a dead rabbit, for example. But whatever. You shake it off and roll with the punches ‘cuz _fucking werewolves,_ right?

 

And okay, Stiles may have looked a little too long that one time the pack came out from the Hale house after the full moon, when Derek was bare-chested and wearing sinfully well-fitting blue pajamas that may or may not have but most definitely did show some bulge.

 

And yeah, so what if one time (or eleven) Stiles watched Derek train the betas and had the urge to run his hands and fingers and mouth and tongue over those chiseled abs and perky nipples? It’s not Stiles’ fault that he appreciates the human form and that Derek just happens to have one of the best he’s ever seen.

 

Stiles can’t look away. He could have never in his wildest fantasies imagined this: Derek, decked out in glitter and wearing nothing but a fake fireman’s helmet and a tiny black thong, muscles tight and rippling as he all out _fucks the air_.

 

Stiles may or may not come in his pants.

 

And it may or may not be the most spectacular unexpected drunk gay orgasm he’s ever experienced in his somewhat innocent 18 years of life.

 

Stiles can’t tell if he’s drunk anymore. Since Stan’s - _Derek’s_ \- set began women have been steadily flocking to the stage and formed a drunken wriggling moat of lust around him. Hands are roaming over Derek’s thighs and calves; painted fingernails dig into his abs and ass under the guise of slipping dollar bills into the straps of his thong. Some even try to pull it away, but Derek gives them a flirting smile and somehow manages to keep it on. Under the haze of lust and alcohol, Stiles thinks Derek must’ve been doing this a while ‘cuz _that_ shit takes practice.

 

Which makes sense, really, because as Stiles watches Derek turn around and flex the _dear sweet lord god in heaven_ muscles of his ass, he realizes that Derek must’ve had a job this whole time. Being a creep and stalking the members of his pack probably doesn’t pay well. Although with his advanced skills in sneaking through windows, he could probably make a lot of money in robbery. Stiles takes a second to daydream about Derek in a tight black catsuit.

 

The song’s almost over - it has to be, it’s been like four hours - and Derek’s still dancing, still flexing every single muscle on his sculpted Herculean Adonis-cloned body.

 

Stiles had no idea his little guy had such an impressive refractory period. Especially drunk. He’d give it a little pat on the head but one mess is enough and he’s pretty sure Danny would see.

 

Derek moves back now, and the sea of women are practically clawing up the sides of the stage to follow him. The song comes to a thumping end and Derek gives the crowd a smirk before he disappears behind the black curtain. Catcalls and bribes and pleas for more come non-stop until the next song begins, and the woman behind the P.A. announces, “Patrick the Police Officer!” along with some cop pun no one catches. The screaming starts again, and Natalie and whatshername run half-sobbing to Patrick the Police Officer’s feet.

 

Everyone comes back to themselves at the same time. Danny very carefully and deliberately sets his daiquiri on the table and folds his hands over his lap; Allison finds her drink and throws it back in one go; and Stiles wipes a line of drool off his chin because his mouth apparently did not close the _entire time_.

 

“Didj’u know Derek w’sgonna be here?” Allison demands from Lydia with a terrified sour-lemon face.

 

Lydia pulls her eyes away from where Derek left the stage and visibly bristles. “ _Maybe_ ,” she starts, but then she looks back up at the stage and deflates a bit. Probably thinking about Derek’s great ass. Or abs. Or face. Or... other things. Stiles is just guessing. “I wasn’t expecting... that... though...”

 

A terrible thought hits Stiles almost as hard as his orgasm. “Oh Jesus - Derek’s gonna kill us. Did he see us?!”

 

Allison gropes the table blindly for Danny’s half-drunk daiquiri and brings the straw shakily to her lips. “I don’t... I don’t know... but he... and the glitter... he wouldn’t.... like actually kill us, would he?”

 

Oh god.

 

They’re going to die. They’re going to die! Derek is actually going to really murder them.  Allison - well Allison has arrows, she’ll be okay. And Lydia... okay she’s probably alright too, the sneaky bitch. Shit! Danny - poor Danny, he had such a future. And oh Jesus, Stiles - Derek’s been waiting for an excuse to kill Stiles. All that shoving-up-against-things and growling and the glowy eyes - okay yeah so maybe it always got Stiles to half-mast but to Derek _that’s what he does when he feels like murdering Stiles to death._

 

Which is not so sexy.

 

Panicked, Stiles texts the one person he knows can help him.

 

**scott derkse a stirpper hes so lgitteray were ala dead help em**

**  
**

****

“Don’t text Scott!” Allison shrieks, grabbing Stiles’ phone out of his hand. “Wat’re you thinking?!”

 

“I’m thinking of ways to not get my face eaten off! I’m being proactive! What are you doing?!” Stiles snatches his phone back and sees:

 

**wut**

**  
**

****

“We’re all dead! Scott can’t help us! No one can help us now!” Stiles throws his useless phone all the way past table twelve because it’s stupid and they’re stupid and they’re still screaming, fucking hell.

 

“Will you calm down?!” Lydia slaps Allison’s arm and makes to hit Stiles but _ha_ _ha!_ Stiles is too fast! He dodges into Danny’s lap. “Look,” Lydia says, and Danny pushes Stiles off. “He didn’t see us, so if we leave now he’ll never have to know we were here. Okay?”

 

It’s a mad inebriated scramble to get as far away from the stage as possible. Stiles trips over Danny who’s trying to grab Allison’s purse, while Allison rips off her heels and yells, “I CAN RUN FASTER WITHOUT THEM,” as Lydia grabs her monstrous bag and Allison’s elbow and pulls them all human-chain-style toward the door.

 

Stiles picks himself up off the truly disgusting floor and tries to follow the shouts of, _“Man down, Lydia, man down!”_ The rest of them are out the door and Stiles is _almost_ there - and then table twelve starts screaming again, and Stiles just _has_ to look back because that’s what Stiles Stilinski  _does._  

 

And who else would be sending table twelve into seizing fits of epileptic lust except Derek, no longer dressed in the fireman’s outfit but still slicked up, muscles tight and rippling and yep, Stiles is hard again in two seconds flat.

 

Actually, he might’ve been hard the whole time.

 

Anyway.

 

Stiles is stuck, one hand on the door handle, door half-way open, one foot out and ready to leave, but he can’t because Derek is _giving a lap dance to the bride-to-be_. His hips move in time with the music, the muscles of his thighs tensing and releasing, and is it possible to be hypnotized by this? Because Stiles is having trouble remembering how to breathe, and when Bachelorette Anna runs her thin fingers over Derek’s wide shoulders and down his chest, when she shamelessly palms his nipples and licks down the line of his abs, Stiles can’t even try to repress the absolutely desperate surge of jealousy that runs all the way down to his fingertips. The fingertips that _should_ be on Derek, not noisy Bachelorette Anna’s, who’s trespassing fingers are starting to skirt the edge of the thong where it sits near Derek’s hips, and -

 

A car horn blares suddenly, and Stiles starts so hard that he actually kicks back into the edge of the door. The horn keeps going, sharp and loud, and now everyone’s looking toward Stiles because the fucking door is letting all the noise in.

 

“Sorry!” Stiles scrambles, heart pounding, looks up and sees - yep, Derek.

 

Staring right at him.

 

Stiles may or may not fall over on his way out.


End file.
